


A Muse

by SavvyLark



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: A love Story, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist!Peeta, Artists, Crushes, F/M, Muses, Short & Sweet, Writer!Katniss, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 20:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14410050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavvyLark/pseuds/SavvyLark
Summary: Finding inspiration, a muse, a love story.Based on the Writing Prompt “You’re an Art student and I’m an English major and you keep stealing the papers for my assignment to doodle and I would kill you but you’re really cute and hey that’s actually a really nice sketch.” [submitted by Katnissdoesnotfollowback] for the 2018 everlark fic exchanged.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/gifts).



> AN: Thank you to the lovely and talented @javistg and @xerxia31 for putting this exchange in motion. @javistg thank you so much for being my beta, this story would be pitiful at best without your help. @katnissdoesnotfollowback I appreciate this prompt, I just couldn’t resist! 

I tried to sit somewhere else today. Still near the back of the lecture hall where I like to disappear, but not in the very back where the late losers like to sneak in. 

I'm not avoiding him, per se, I just don't want to owe him and admit that he helped me. 

I might as well admit that I'm avoiding the longing I feel too. 

His blue eyes meet mine. He takes the seat next to me --his unofficial spot since the semester began. 

I shake my head. I was trying to avoid him but, as he sits down, I can't help the desire to smile from the inside out. 

He’s so annoying! With a wavy mop of unruly hair, a wild side, a stark contrast to his classic All-American boy looks and tidy, smart attire. His sunny disposition is especially difficult to palate. Who’s friends with this many people? Unheard of.

Of course I thought he was shallow, but the more I learn about Peeta Mellark the more he surprises me. His depths could fill an ocean. The color of his eyes match the soul inside. Depth. Swirling of emotions. 

The beauty he sees in the world, he commits to paper so profoundly. It’s soul-stirring. 

Upon smiling at him, Peeta gives me a knowing smirk. “Trying to ditch me, Everdeen?” 

“Didn't work.” I fake a scowl, then laugh. 

Hmm, I've been laughing a lot around him. It's unsettling. 

He grabs my papers, and shifts through them while we wait for class. 

I roll my eyes as he uses a pen to draw on the final draft of the poem I have to turn in next class. 

A beautiful dandelion to go along with my poem. It's breathtaking. 

The first time he did this I was furious. For a moment, I let myself get I lost in the memory.

Peeta sat next to me for our first class of the semester in Professor Crane’s lecture period.

After Peeta sat next to me 3 lectures in a row, I remained indifferent. I pretended I didn't notice. Apart from the “bless you” I uttered when he sneezed, I never spoke to him. 

I have a feeling Peeta is not used to being ignored because his attempts at communication increased. I don't really do small talk, so his every attempt fell flat. Yet, he continued to sit by me. I gave him short answers or shrugs. 

I'm focused on my degree. Junior year as an English major is no walk in the park.

“What are you, a writer?” he asked as he observed just how many pages and pages of my notebook were filled with my penmanship.

“Mhmm, English major,” I mumbled. 

I'm not fond of people raffling through my stuff but, I also don't really care what he reads. 

He started reading some of my original work and his eyes widened. 

I briefly panicked, ‘that wasn't the erotic one was it?’ Then I reminded myself that that particular notebook is tucked away in my apartment. 

“Woah, this is really good! You're a decent writer, Everdeen!” He announced.

I shrugged. ‘Good’ is relatively subjective. Especially when it comes to the written word.

Peeta takes his pencil and starts doodling, which he often does. I used to think he was kind of a slacker because of this, but he gets good grades. I also noticed that at times he has paint splatters or a rogue charcoal smudge. 

I remember my roommate, Madge, who is a psych major, once explaining that highly creative children and adults are often active learners. I assume Peeta is the same and it helps him absorb the boring information.

This professor in particular is especially fond of the sound of his own voice. 

I look over and he's drawing in the margin of my notebook. The nerve of this guy! As class ends, I snatch my notebook from him, and scowl. 

How dare he? 

What kind of person grafitis all over someone else’s hard work? 

I was livid.

Seething.

 

Until I looked at what he'd drawn. 

It gave me pause.

Peeta's good. He's really good! 

I look back up at him, I hadn't looked at him face to face until this moment. 

His blue eyes are gorgeous and they shine. The intense masculine gaze I'm met with makes me sweat a little. I take a moment to observe his strong jawline and the light stubble he's rocking. The way his hair sweeps over his forehead in a disheveled rockstar kind of way. Something in my stomach did a flip. 

This might actually be the hottest guy I've ever talked to. 

“This is really good! You're a decent artist, Mellark,” I echo his words, but my praise was sincere. 

Peeta's smile brightened. Near perfect teeth, and a dimple. If I wasn't sitting I think I would have gone weak in the knees. 

I don't think a guy has ever had this effect on me before. 

“Art major,” he stated simply.

So I might have a crush on him, that I'm only slightly aware of and definitely NOT acknowledging…

Unless he feels the same. 

I sigh to myself.

Since I can't avoid him, I have to admit how much he helped me with a class I was struggling to keep an A in. 

I whip out a few of my graded papers from moronic Professor Vinia who previously felt that my poetry was “far too serious.” 

To be fair, I'm indifferent about flowery poetry. 

On the last 4 poems I turned in, Peeta drew an illustration. As a result, my poems have increased an entire letter grade. 

Professor Vinia prattled on and on about how I must have found some new inspiration. 

“Look.” I point to the papers just as class gets out. 

“Great job, Katniss!” 

“My grade went up after you started illustrating my poems,” I state with a smile. 

I bit my lip and meet his eyes. 

“So, thank you. I thought this teacher had it out for me, but your magical illustrations convinced her that I have more feeling and depth and um, hope, I think she said? ” I explain. 

Peeta lifts one of the poems and reads it. A warm smile spreads on his face. He looks up at me. I'm momentarily captivated in his gaze. 

“That's all you. This one in particular is beautiful,” he says and, for some reason, I get the feeling he's not just talking about the poem I wrote about my favorite pond as a child. 

Back to the subject at hand. “What, suddenly my poetry improved?” I ask Peeta. 

He slowly moves toward me.

“I'm saying.” Peeta’s arms plant themselves on either of me on the table I'm leaning against. “Maybe you found new inspiration?” His voice gets softer as he speaks. His face is so close to mine our noses almost touch. 

I'm lost in his eyes, and the way our bodies are mere inches from touching. My heart beats erratically as his cheek brushes mine. His lips graze my ear as he whispers, “A muse, maybe? I know I've found mine.” 

I'm breathless at I slowly take in his words. 

He's right. He figured it out. Peeta is my muse, my new inspiration. He’s the male lead in all my new stories. A noticeable optimism has brightened the tone of everything I've written since Peeta Mellark first doodled on my notebook. 

It takes me a moment to register the last part of what he said to me.

“Who's your muse?” I wonder out loud. 

He pulls back so our eyes meet again. The intensity in his blue irises seek out my very soul. ‘You' they speak without words. 

The smile that follows could eclipse the sun. 

Peeta reaches into his backpack for his sketchbook. 

I squint my eyes in curiosity. 

He bites his lip to fight the small laugh emerging. Then flips a few pages and hands me his artwork. 

Gray eyes, a scowl, a long braid; petite, feminine but calloused hands holding a pencil. My profile, my neck, my collarbone, the back of my head. Pages and pages of my eyes in various states of expression. 

And in every single one I'm not just beautiful, I'm radiant! I feel something hot burn the corner of my eye and find a tear there. 

I tend to be unusually apathetic by nature, but I'm overcome by emotion looking at these sketches, and how Peeta sees me. 

Me.

Ordinary, average, easily overlooked Katniss Everdeen. 

“It's always been you, Katniss. You don't know the effect you can have,” Peeta confesses. 

If he had more to say, his words are cut off by my lips. I grip his shirt and pull Peeta into a kiss.

Oh, what a kiss! His lips are surprisingly soft and powerful. The strength and intensity with which they respond makes me dizzy. 

I wonder if he can feel how manically my heart beats in my chest. 

I didn't know a kiss could feel like this. 

I’m a goner. 

Peeta Mellark has me, I'm putty in his hands. 

His strong fingers --the fingers that create such beauty with the pen, pencil, and paint-- weave through my hair at the nape of my neck and pull me closer. 

A moan escapes my throat. 

Bliss. It feels like we're dancing or riding a rollercoaster. I feel like I'm free-falling as his lips dive in again and take possession of mine. The passion and vigour he kisses me with whispers to my heart loudly, words best expressed in prose or a painting. 

An elbow strikes my shoulder and breaks us out of our bubble where fantasies are real. 

Johanna Mason flashes a shit-eating grin as I catch my breath and try to stand up right. I wobble, and steady myself with the support of the table. 

Peeta just kissed me senseless. 

Amazing!

“Can't you take this to your dorm? And also, it's about time! All of us have had enough with the sexual tension filling the entire room. It's ridiculous!” Johanna blurted out.

She turns to Peeta and slaps him on the back.

“Good going, Blondie! You wouldn't believe how many of us have been trying to get in her pants. To no avail, we would have gotten the same response from a dead slug. Only around you... she's a girl on fire!” She leaves Peeta with a wink. 

For the second time today I'm speechless. 

I don't know why I feel embarrassed. The words ‘dead slug’ being used to describe myself are a pretty awful thing to hear, but ‘girl on fire’ is a little over the top. 

I shyly look up at Peeta, his grin actually makes me laugh. 

Peeta has bright smiles but this one takes the cake, he's over the moon. His lips are red and his cheeks are flushed. 

‘I did that.’ I think to myself and can't contain my own smile. 

Peeta clears his throat and nervously rubs the back of his neck. “So, uh, what are you doing Friday? Do you want to go out with me, Katniss?” he asks me with a voice that's more raspy than usual, dangerously arousing. 

Instead of answering right away, I just want his lips again. I stand up in my top toes and take his bottom lip in mine. I inhale deeply through my nose, lost in the feel of his wet soft lips. The euphoria surges in waves, leaving a buzz in its wake from my head to my toes. 

I pull away and whisper, “Yes, I do.”


	2. Chapter 2

“All of us need to be in touch with a mysterious, tantalizing source of inspiration that teases our sense of wonder and goads us on to life’s next adventure.” -Rob Brezsny 

“Thanks!” I give a grateful nod to the barista as she hands me two steaming oversized mugs of hot chocolate. I take in the cozy atmosphere at this uptown coffee shop and bookstore my boyfriend just had to show me. 

I settle into a cozy reading nook in the corner as steam bellows off the top of my hot chocolate. I lightly blow on it and glance over the rim to enjoy the view. I'm not talking about out the window, I'm talking about that broad-shouldered hot blond man perusing the bookshelves just in my vision. 

Just from general observation, I can see that this man keeps up an active lifestyle. His t-shirt does little to hide his muscular back and triceps. Any woman could appreciate a nicely shaped backside in those jeans. I find the air caught in my throat as I take in the masculine specimen before me. Mentally taking note to describe every detail for future writing purposes. 

The man turns and I'm immediately captivated by his deep blue eyes. 

“Come here often?” I flirtatiously approach the handsome man. 

By nature I'm not this forward or coquettish, but there's something about this man that pulls me out of my shell. Time and time again. 

He smirks and licks his lips. I try to ignore the effect he has on me.

He's debating what to say, finally answering, “Ah, no I don't, but I heard that this new author was in town, and I just had to be here for this. Take a look?” 

In his hands, Peeta holds a book from the “Best Sellers” section of the store. 

My jaw drops. I tear my eyes from the beautifully designed book cover, up to his handsome earnest expression, his blue eyes dancing with happiness. The excitement on his face surely matches my own. 

I launch myself into his arms and give an uncharacteristic shriek as Peeta dramatically spins me in a circle. The deep abiding happiness that radiates through me every time his comforting arms wrap around me returns. 

Before placing me back on my feet, he places a sweet peck on my cheek. 

“How did--?” I'm baffled.

Peeta waves me over to the reading nook where we settle in with our hot chocolate. 

“Your publisher, Effie, called me yesterday and told me you were making the bestseller list today!! It was her idea to surprise you!” he rushes his explanation in is his excitement. 

“You mean WE made the bestseller list!” I correct him.

He looks skeptical.

“Together?” I reinforce my point, echoing the words he used before we committed to this journey. I reach out my hand for his, Peeta Mellark, my inspiration. 

He smiles at my open palm, placing his hand where it belongs, in mine.

“Together,” he answers, a little breathless. 

Our eyes meet as we share a moment, the room is filled with electric energy. 

There's no way I would have done this without him. I stare down at our best selling young adult novel, written by Katniss Everdeen, illustrations by award-winning indie artist Peeta Mellark. 

I'm taken back to a time when it was just a pipe dream.

\-----

I love watching him when he gets that “mad scientist” look while he paints the most brilliant creations.

I love when the waves on his forehead slip into his vision, forcing him to carelessly jerk his head to the side while he continues his work. 

I love his impossibly long eyelashes, I don't understand how they don’t get all tangled up. 

I love the light in his eyes when he explains a particular art concept that excites him.

How shading just right creates the depth he desired. Echoing the depths of his soul. His incredible vision of the world, committed to canvas and paint. 

My heart skips a beat as he explains the joy of capturing the sunset just right with an angled brush. Mixing the contrasting colors, yet keeping the vibrancy derived from the very sun. 

Upon finishing his latest masterpiece, his presence, demeanor, and expression are especially contagious. 

I'm so drawn to this man. He's addicting. 

I can't get enough of Peeta Mellark. 

After placing his paintbrush down, he catches me staring. 

I blush and look away, trying to pretend that I haven't been studying him.

Peeta smirks at me and joins me on the couch. When he pulls me into his lap my heart starts to race. I so easily get lost in his kisses. His tongue deliciously roams past my lips and meets my tongue, making my toes curl. His kisses make their journey down my neck where he finds that particular spot that makes me hum. 

My hands sneak under his shirt, they roam over every plane and slope on his muscular back and broad shoulders. 

His hand travels up my ribcage and lightly cups my left breast while his lips seem to find my cleavage. The moan that escapes me when he squeezes my nipple is louder than I expected.

I've never needed anyone like I need Peeta. I could definitely get lost in this man for decades to come. 

Our clothes fall away. A feverish desire for one another takes over. 

I'm dizzy with happiness and lust. I'm not sure where I end and he begins at this point. We fit together perfectly, like a puzzle. 

As the waves of pleasure wash over me, Peeta grunts and sputters with whispers of affection and admiration in my ear at the point his own release. I find myself overcome with an overwhelming, life changing fact that I just can't deny any longer. 

I love him.

I love Peeta Mellark, with everything that I am. 

I find tears in my eyes as I cling to him. Silently chanting the truth I'm terrified to hear out loud from my own voice, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ I tell him silently. The words stay in my mind. 

We fall asleep holding each other. Waking up in his arms seems to be the most natural haven in the world, one that brings the best sleep of my entire life. 

Grateful doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of how I feel to have this man in my life, to be able to call him mine.

I have to tell him that we have come to a crossroads. A decision has to be made. 

The thought this taunts and nags at me throughout the day, and my mood becomes more sour. 

Peeta catches on before I even realized what I’m doing. 

He furrows his brow and crosses his arms over his chest to addresses my concerns, “Katniss, honestly, I can pick up my art corner, and I don’t have to buy groceries. I know this isn't my apartment, but you've never ever indicated that it bothered you before!” 

He looks at me suspiciously and waits for an explanation that never comes. 

I feel his eyes as he studies me for a moment. I try to remain indifferent to his scrutiny, but it appears Peeta can read me all too well. 

He smiles for a moment, which only builds my frustration. 

I'm immune to his charms, I tell myself. 

He leans in closer, and holds my gaze. 

I know what he's doing, it won't work. 

Then, he makes me laugh and, before I realize it, I'm kissing him with an unusual degree of aggression. As I nip and scrape at his bottom lip, I feel a tremble roll down Peeta's back, and a shuttering exhale from his lips. I try to hold in a smile as I realize the effect I have on him. 

This is part of the trouble, I don't know what to do. What would I do without him? 

My confusion comes to a head and I shove him away. “You drive me crazy!” 

Peeta laughs, then sobers when he sees my expression. 

My fearful reaction to the look on his face morphs into a more manageable emotion, anger. I start ranting about how I don't understand why he would want me when I'm a mess, and trail off into all the reasons he would be better off without me, and why we're so different. It's glaringly obvious. 

I'm shy and quiet, he's outgoing, the life of the party. 

I'm a concrete thinker, my thoughts are more linear and tangible. He thinks in abstract concepts, he understands emotion and keeps this in balance. 

I'm a writer, creative in my own right, but everything fits in neat little boxes, there's a framework. 

Over time, I've also learned that there is a framework, a structure and planning, to creating a successful artwork. The feeling and emotion that goes into his creations is a process I can’t even begin to grasp. 

 

When I actually take a moment to look at his face his hurt expression guts me. He's pulling his hair in frustration as he tries to make sense of everything I'm saying.

Then he takes a step towards me and asks, “Why are you pushing me away, Katniss?” 

“Because I'm just going to hurt you. You deserve so much better than me…” As I speak the words, I find my eyes pooling with tears. I stare at the ceiling, willing them not to fall. 

He looks stunned for a moment, then I feel his warm and comforting hand in mine. “Let me be the judge of that, Katniss. I think I get to decide where my heart belongs.” 

His heart. 

I just stare at him, jaw slack, for a moment. 

Then I listen to him, let his words sink in. He’s right. I guess I should tell Peeta and let him decide. 

“I… I have to show you something.” I tell him, giving his hand a squeeze before releasing it and retrieving the letter from Effie Trinket, my uncle's friend, the publisher who’s very interested in my writing. 

If I move there. 

She would set me up with an apartment, and I would have to commit to living there for more than a year. 

Uncle Haymitch assured me that this is an amazing opportunity. Ms. Trinket goes to great lengths to be formal and show decorum. Once I arrive, she will take me under her wing, as she takes a personal interest in the success of her chosen few. 

Peeta reads the letter once, then twice, before looking up at me.

“Milan, Italy,” is all he says. 

“I don't know why I feel this way, why I'm so torn, why I feel so confused…” I start pacing and muttering all kinds of things that don't matter at all. 

Peeta interrupts me, “Katniss, Katniss! Why are you upset?” 

I bury face with my hands and yell angrily, “Because I LOVE YOU! This is my dream, but I don't think I can do this without you!” 

I feel the tears pour out of my eyes onto my hands. 

I hate feeling this vulnerable. 

I don't want to need another person. 

His warm comforting arms envelop me, and I sigh in his embrace. He kisses the top of my head and rubs my back, soothing my fears. He waits for me to stop crying before he speaks, his low timbre is just above a whisper, “What if we go together? I would love to move to Italy with you, Katniss, because I love you too!”

I never ever imagined this best case scenario, but Peeta Mellark continues to surprise me. I pull away just so I can look him in the eye. 

“What would I do without muse? I can do my artwork from anywhere, if anything, a change of scenery can bring entirely new points of inspiration. Italy, Katniss!” he further explains, excitement raising in his voice as he speaks.

Instantly, I realize he is dead serious. My expression softens as I read the love written all over his face. My lips find his. This is just as breathtaking and mind blowing as our first kiss, but with this kiss I know this is love. 

The kind of love you fight for. 

“So I might be publishing my original work, with a world-renowned publisher, and we're moving to Italy together?” I lose my confidence at the end of my question, and it shows in my tone and the expression on my face. 

Peeta clasps his hand in mine and answers with unwavering support, “Together.”


	3. Epilogue

Peeta’s strong muscular arms wrap around my waist and barely noticeable baby bump as he pulls me flush to his broad chest, hugging me from behind. This is his new favorite way to snuggle me close. His hands cradle the mound where our unborn child grows. 

Every single time he does something like this I find myself a little choked up. Not a lot, I'm still the same practical, level-headed Katniss. But, damn it! These pregnancy hormones have gripped me with emotion in these tender moments we share. 

The tear I willed away rebelliously escapes my eye and trails down my cheek. 

Peeta Mellark gets to be a daddy. If anyone should have children and bring more hope in this world it should be him.

We need more Peeta Mellarks in this world. 

I'm so incredibly lucky I get to be on this journey with him. Another petulant tear escapes despite my protests. 

I wipe it away hoping Peeta and anyone else around didn't notice. 

“What are we going to tell our children when they find the erotic literature we write together?” I whisper in his ear. 

His warm laugh rumbles in his chest against my back. I find myself turning my head to the side, inviting Peeta's lips to graze my neck. He obliges, my husband knows me so well. 

I sigh. His kisses are like sweet honey. 

“That's why we wrote them under a pen name, dear wife,” he reminds me. “God! You look so HOT in this dress!” 

“Cinna,” I answer with a shrug. Despite living in the epicenter of fashion for over 2 years, being dragged to every fashion week with Effie Trinket, and my friendship with the award-winning it designer Cinna, I still don't care much for it and am grateful he choses my wardrobe for events like this one. 

“No, Cinna made the dress, but you've always been the smoking hot Girl on Fire,” Peeta says, referencing the nickname I was called in college, completely unbeknownst to me for years. 

I can't contain the laugh that bursts forth. Peeta joins me, maybe out of pity, because it wasn't that funny. The whole thing is still absurd to me. 

Effie makes her appearance, eyeing us with curiosity at our laughter. 

The affectionate smile Effie gives me reminds me of one a mother gives a daughter. She's thrilled do be this child’s “Nonna.”

As “extra” as she can be, I'm extremely lucky to have found favor in her eyes. I loathe to admit, Effie also holds a maternal place in my life that I hold dear. 

I clutch Peeta’s like a lifeline. My love. My muse. My husband. 

With the squeeze of my hand Effie leads us, “Eyes bright, chins up, smiles on. I'm talking to you, Katniss! It's showtime!”


End file.
